Look at this hand – this wide pale spade –
deep furrowed knuckles on bent peninsulas,
their concentric crags like ripples on a flesh pond.
Stone flat nails, short and mooned pushing out
under cuticles arched taught with drying wear.
A broad hollow palm stretched with vague
crisscrossed promises of life and love.
I look at this hand and see another hand, another time
where joints are knotted with age and work;
broken, mended, injured, healed and scarred –
knuckles angled, hardened, stiff with excess and time.
They are my mother’s, they are my mother’s mother’s
they are my sister’s, they are my sister’s daughter’s,
they are mine. The plan endures though this hand is dust.